Wind and Coconuts

January 27, 2011

Like most nights, I did not sleep well. Sometimes I was too sore. Sometimes I was nervous. Sometimes lost in confusing or terrifying dreams, in and out of sleep trying to filter through what was real and what wasn’t. Even by morning it was usually still indecipherable. Things had been increasingly weird since I had started this trip some months ago. It would be hard to surprise me no matter what situation I found myself in upon waking.

But this time it was a simple matter of wind. I had failed to stake my tent down and the Harmattan, the seasonal winds that blow from the Sahara across West Africa, had decided to kick into high gear out of the blue. It struggled to send my tent rolling down the beach, but with me inside, it just pawed at it intensely, pushing my ceiling into my nose. I envisioned my poles snapping, tearing holes in the nylon mesh, leaving me to be feasted on by mosquitoes and whipped by blowing sand. I could only imagine what Blai was going through with his $20 Chinese tent that he had bought in Bamako.

By morning, in the light of day, things were a little less dramatic than they had seemed in my constant bursts of semi-consciousness. When I emerged from my tent, I saw Blai had given up on his tent, and was sleeping on our mat. Jonathan, so proud of his sturdy tent, had no idea it had even been windy.

This marked the beginning of a new era on the boat trip. Our first major challenge, or challenger, the Harmattan winds. I had known this would be a problem, but there was not much we could do about it. Not to say “I knew it all along”, but I had told Blai and Jonathan that the windy season was fast approaching and it was nothing to mess with. I had lived in Ghana for the same windy season two years ago and had seen their power. Of course, they don’t happen every day, but when they do blow, they mean it.

We weren’t sure what to do, so we just loaded the boat after breakfast, business as usual. As soon as we tried to paddle in defiance of the Harmattan, he called our bluff and upped the ante. The river grew whitecaps and our boat rocked. We paddled harder, hugging the shore. We barely moved. After days building up our paddling strength, we were made to feel like children as we pushed as hard as we could and simply inched forward. After 20 minutes, we spotted a village a few hundred meters in front of us. Ten minutes later, we washed up on the shore, extremely dejected, to some surprised looking women and confused children. We were too beat to even be very friendly and greet people. We simply grabbed our mat, books, and found a shade tree and tried to recover physically and emotionally.

That, of course, was too much to ask. The children came out of the woodworks and slowly approached. They kept their distance for a while, until an elderly man approached. We shook hands, greeted in Bambara, and then he tried to have a conversation with us in Bambara. Of course, our vocabulary in the local language was still fairly limited, and he knew no French. We explained, through sign language, that the wind was too strong for us and we were going to rest until it subsided. This seemed fine with him and he soon left leaving us to be stared at by a dozen young children at a now very short distance. I tried to be as uninteresting as possible, but reading a book is still too fascinating to them. Soon after, the chief came by with a young man who spoke bits of French. We brought some tea for the chief and tried to explain our situation through the young man. We didn’t understand him very well, but he seemed to understand us. We were welcomed and the chief hung out on our mat for a while, occasionally shooing away the bored kids, especially as some of them broke into wrestling matches over vantage points.

On a walk through the village we witnessed one of the most remote and poor little places I have ever seen. There didn’t appear to be a school (thought I still view that as unnecessary detail in this part of the world as there are more pressing issues), little livestock or farming (even though it was the dry season, the river provides all the water necessary for year round farming, and the few fields lay fallow) and only a small dirt trail as access to the outside world. Several children had lazy eyes, which can be caused by malnutrition. During the dry season it was also inaccessible by large river boats. Some places, although remote, and lacking infrastructure, schools, etc., still are able to get by comfortably, although simply. Something about this tiny village felt depressing, though. The people seemed more downtrodden than in other villages. I wanted to know their history and what reasons they had to seem more miserable than other places along the river, as I couldn’t know for sure. Unfortunately, I could barely understand the only person around with any knowledge of French.

The village's mosque, in the traditional mud and stick construction of the Sahel. Photo credit: Jonathan Heier

We were invited to a seat outside the towns little shop (which surprisingly stocked tea, sugar and biscuits, but unsurprisingly nothing more) as we munched on a few vanilla biscuits. We tried to offer some to the men standing around, but they refused. A young, nervous woman came by with a large calabash on her head. We watched as she lowered the calabash off her head to reveal about a gallon of fresh milk. An old woman bought a small bowl of it and put it in a plastic bag. We each bought a bowl. It was still warm. It had that unpasteurized taste that feels so naughty, yet so good to us Americans. After finished our bowls, we quickly bought a liter for about $.60. I just realized that is close to American prices, which shows how spoiled we really are. At the same time, though, this milk was more pure and honest than any I have ever had in my life and the people in the village that can afford it are lucky for this. From udder to my mouth in a matter of minutes.

The shop. Photo Credit: Blai Garriga

Photo Credit: Blai Garriga

We rushed back to our mat to make some coffee that we could grace with a splash of our rich milk. I felt guilty, but we were truly living like kings in this village. At least, though, we knew how lucky we were and we savored that milk and appreciated it as much as I feel the local children would.

The wind howled through our lunch of cabbage stew (which did not make me feel like a king) and we soon heard the sputtering of a cheap Chinese motor powering a large pinasse down the river. Blai was sick of waiting for the wind, so he flagged the boat onto the shore. They were having trouble with the wind as well, and a man dressed in a suit stood on the front, steering the bow with a long bamboo pole.

Blai asked how much to tie our boat to theirs and take us 10 km. We must have looked desperate as they asked for $70. We offered $2. Our offer was more fair than theirs (though I didn’t know this at the time), but they didn’t seem very interested anyway. I was happy with this, as I didn’t want to give into the wind after only a few hours.

By 4:00 the wind finally began to subside noticeably. We quickly hopped into our boat, without saying goodbye to the chief or anybody else we had met in the village (not even the milk lady!), and started paddling, hoping the wind would stay down.

It did, and after an hour, the water looked like glass, like it had at dusk every night before. Our camping spot was not too close to a village, but close enough that wood was hard to find. We all went into the bush with the last of our sunlight and we all came back with cuts everywhere from trying to bring back long, thin sticks covered in thorns. All the decent wood had been taken by people or eaten by termites. The thorny wood’s smoke smelled awful and made our dinner taste the same.

Unrelated incident somewhere on the Niger river:

Three boys in a boat, in an unfamiliar land, slightly bored, very sun burnt, feeling a little too tired, feeling a little too ambitious, feeling a little too free. They spot something familiar. A palm tree with coconuts. They know coconuts, they want coconuts. They look small and green, but they must be good for coconut water and a little meat. They climb onto the river’s island. They find the one coconut tree, a few sheep, a few cows. A village on the opposite bank of the river is too far away to notice the shenanigans. Men on a passing canoe pretend not to see the bizarre half-naked strangers.

The tools: bamboo pole, machete, rope, t-shirt, ignorance, stubbornness.

First attempt: bamboo pole. In other environments, perhaps with riper coconuts, this is fool proof. Bang the coconuts a few times, and drowned in refreshing coconut water in minutes. Green Malian coconuts provide stronger resistance.

Second attempt: Machete tied to bamboo. An awesome tool in many circumstances, maybe good for coconut procurement as well. Unfortunately there is not enough leverage to create a strong force to saw through the vines holding the coconuts.

Third attempt: Machete tied to bamboo, with excess rope hanging down. One person holds bamboo, another other person pulls the machete/bamboo combo with the rope, back and forth trying to saw through, third person watches out for falling coconuts or falling machetes. Either could be lethal.

Fourth attempt: t-shirt, brawn. The guy with dreadlocks ties ankles together with t-shirt, tries to climb. He makes it a few steps up, but then falls. The guy who had dreadlocks tries the same, makes it half as far, then falls. The guy who had dreadlocks for a week a long time ago knows better and continues to watch for falling coconuts and machetes.

Fifth attempt: rocks. No, throwing rocks at coconuts does not make them come out of trees.

Sixth attempt: Machete tied to bamboo, with excess rope hanging down, persistence. Cheers, as a bunch of ten coconuts fall, quickly turn to cries of sadness, as one coconut splits open, revealing its bare, dry insides. More coconuts are hacked into with the machete. The coconuts bear no fruit. The boys console themselves by having a green coconut-throwing contest.